a little too much of that poison, baby
by afastmachine
Summary: How bad can it be to have a little fun with the charming man offering a drink and a wink? The answer? Very bad.
1. Chapter 1

_Ow,_ is the first thing that passes through Emma's head. Even behind closed eyelids, the light seems blinding as she comes back to the land of the living.

The last thing she remembers is taking a drink from tall dark and handsome, thinking hey, this can't hurt. Sure, he may have been dressed like a ridiculously attractive version of Captain Hook, but she was choosing to put emphasis on the _ridiculously attractive_ part of the description.

It can hurt, actually, she determines, and groans, burying her face in the pillows. She can handle her liquor, thank you very much, but she hasn't been this hungover in a long time. Her head pounds and her mouth feels dry and filthy. She's thirsty and her stomach is flipping nervously.

_God_ last night must have been monumentally stupid. She would happily stay in bed the rest of the day, but her flight back home leaves at two and she's pretty sure it's well into the middle of the morning. Plus, as she slowly starts to realize, taking in the smell of the pillow her face is buried in, this is decidedly not her room. Cracking one eye open and wincing at the brightness, she confirms it. She's been spending the past few days in a cheap single room, and this is far from that. The bedroom is massive, a larger room visible through an open wide archway and a lot of marble through another.

Rolling over, she finally pries the second eye open to take in the other person in this massive swamp of a bed. His face is buried into the pillow, so all she can see is a head of scruffy dark hair and an impressively lean back covered in scratch marks.

Whoops. Closing her eyes, she tries to fumble through the vague memories of the night before, most of it a blurry mess. She has one surprisingly vivid picture of ripping a shirt open with her teeth? And yup, the man lying naked next to her _is_ in fact the wannabe pirate from the night before.

Careful to not wake him, she sits up, pulling the sheet over her chest as she watches him. She remembers blue eyes and a charming smirk, but neither are there now; eyes firmly shut, face loose in sleep. From what she can see of his neck, there's a line of dark bruises littering it that she's one hundred percent sure were _not_ there when she met him. It's been a long time since a one night stand let her do _that_.

Sure, he's attractive, especially like this, but, she decides, he's probably not worth the pounding headache currently stabbing her eyes. God, the flight home is going to be a _nightmare_.

Well, his room looks like it's practically an apartment; there's got to be some water and some aspirin around. Quietly disentangling herself from the bed, she reaches for the first thing she finds; conveniently enough, his shirt, a handful of buttons at the bottom torn clean off. It's not exactly like he needs it right now anyway. She slips it onto her shoulders and pads around the bedroom, peering quickly into the gorgeous bathroom, complete with a huge jacuzzi and glass-sided shower. Nothing there, of course, so she moves into the other room. There's a couch and desk, a huge window that overlooks the city, complete with balcony. The view looks familiar, but she's never been out here before and she couldn't pick out the city's infamous landmarks if she tried. There are fountains not too far away, and a pretty imitation of the Eiffel Tower.

Turning away from the picturesque scene, she spots the area that looks like a kitchen. She quickly finds a bottle of water in the fully stocked fridge, and a collection of pill bottles that she'd rather not consider the contents of.

It's a nice suite; really nice, in fact. Nicer than any hotel she's ever stayed at.

She wonders what her Captain Hook does for a living that he can afford this. In Las Vegas, nonetheless.

Slowly, she meanders through the rest of the rooms before making her way back to the bedroom. She sets the water and the pills down on the bedside table and starts searching for her clothing, tossing them in a pile on the bed before she turns back to the water.

Picking up the pill, she eyes it carefully one last time, making sure it is indeed aspirin. She pops it in her mouth and unscrews the cap on the bottle of water, tipping it back and downing half of it in one go.

It's only when she pulls the bottle away from her lips that she notices for the first time the glint of something on her left hand.

She nearly chokes, coughing hard to clear the water out of her air pipe as she blinks owlishly at her hand.

There on her ring finger, clear as day, is a simple silver band, sparkling gems inset on either side of the delicate centerpiece, a crystal clear diamond. She blinks again, not really processing what she's seeing. It's a gorgeous ring, sure, something she would appreciate if it wasn't quite firmly set on _her_ hand with no memory of how it had gotten there.

"Emma?" a groggy voice calls from the bed, clearly awoken by her hacking, and she snaps around to him.

He's just sitting up, rubbing at his eyes and squinting at her worriedly.

It takes a _lot_ to make Emma Swan panic. This, this isn't panic. It's a perfectly understandable reaction.

"What the _hell _is this!?"

He winces at her tone as she waves wildly at her left hand. She's seen this movie before; missing memories, strange bedfellows, _diamond rings_…it's like a fucking romantic comedy. Except there's nothing romantic about this. Not even when he smirks and raises his own left hand, pointing at the plain band that encircles his ring finger.

"It's a wedding ring, love. Thought you might remember that, though I suppose I did blow your mind not too much later," he says with a wink, but she's still stuck on the matching ring on his finger, _it's a wedding ring_ like she should accept the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"A wedding ring," she repeats numbly.

A wedding ring. On her finger.

A goddamn motherfucking _wedding ring_.

Fuck her life.


	2. Chapter 2

"Listen buddy, I don't know what you think happened last night, but there is no _way_ we're married."

Emma very pointedly does not look at him, instead snatching her underwear out of her pile of clothes and turning around so she can pull them on under his shirt. She reaches back for her bra, but instead is met with a very warm, very _naked_ body pressing against her back.

"I'm sure the wedding license is around here somewhere sweetheart. We could…_search_ for it," he murmurs into the side of her neck, kissing her skin gently as he brings his arms around her. For the first time, she notices the rough accent to his voice, the way it sounds like a growl when it's whispered into her skin.

It feels good, _really_ good. She almost relaxes into it for a second before she realizes she's letting a stranger who is _allegedly_ now her husband distract her from her completely justified anger.

She elbows him in the side and quickly ducks out of his embrace when he grunts and staggers back against the bed.

"No _thank you_," she mutters, shoving him aside so she can reach for her clothes. He staggers and blinks confusedly.

"Emma, love, listen, we-" he starts, but she whirls on him.

"Stop doing that! I don't even know your name; I am _not_ your 'love', okay? I'm not your 'sweetheart', I am not your 'darling' or 'princess'. I'm not your _anything_." She tugs her pants on, ripping his shirt off her shoulders and throwing it at him. "I don't know what the hell happened last night, but you and I are _not _married. There isn't a _we_. _You_ are a one night stand in Vegas. Nothing more. So get the hell out of my way, because I have a flight to catch."

He stares at her, blinking as she finally tugs her shirt over her head and tugs on the edges to straighten it out. Finally, he seems to regain the ability to speak.

"It's Killian," he says quietly. Emma blinks and looks up at him, pausing her search for her phone. "Killian Jones, and your things are with your suitcase." He gestures to a small door off to the side.

"Oh." She frowns, scrunching up her face. Maybe she'd been a little too mean to him. But he'd been coming on to her! Normally she wouldn't mind the morning after with a guy that looked like _that_, but all this, it was too much. "Thank you," she says instead, heading where he'd pointed.

The door opens into a walk-in closet, a rack of men's clothing lining one side, from suits to casual wear. On the opposite side, the hangers are empty, her bag the only thing sitting there. Carefully perched on top of it are her wallet and cell.

"You insisted that we go get it last night; said you didn't want to have to go to your hotel before your flight," Killian's voice comes from behind her. Casting a glance back at him, she notices he's pulled a pair of pants on (finally), but it does little to ease his rumpled attractiveness. He shrugs his shoulders slightly. "And what kind of husband would I be if I'd said no?"

Tucking her wallet and phone into her pants, she straightens and turns fully. He's leaning against the doorframe, a mix of emotions on his fac. He's not lying; nothing he's said at all rings as false, which only makes the whole situation worse.

"You seem very relaxed about the idea of marrying a complete stranger in Vegas, you know," she says, narrowing her eyes at him. This is all she has, the offensive.

"Life happens," he says and shrugs his shoulders again. "At least I picked someone with mind to match her stunning body," Killian winks again, and Emma represses the urge to smile slightly at the compliment. Instead, she frowns.

"Still. How do I know you didn't drug me or trick me?"

His face goes dark, brow furrowing and eyes narrowing. "I have _never_ slept with anyone who wasn't completely eager, much less _married_ them, _Emma_."

They stare daggers at each other for a long moment before he gives, twitching his head to the side with a small huff.

"Besides, I was nearly as drunk as you were. I doubt I could have _planned_ anything like this."

Rather than dwell on that, Emma shakes her head and reaches down to grab her bag.

"Listen, I have a flight to catch. I'm sorry, but I can't miss it."

He smiles charmingly. "I know. All you could talk about last night was how happy you were to be getting home." His eyes twinkle and he steps out of the doorway to let her out. "I actually seem to recall you mentioning that I seemed to be the only decent part of your trip."

"Wow," Emma deadpans, tossing him a glance, "I must have been _wasted_."

And, to her complete surprise, instead of being offended, he _laughs_. Full and deep, and wow, that's not attractive at all, that smile. Whoops.

"Aye, lass, I suppose you were. But still gorgeous."

She feels her cheeks heat and desperately tries to find a retort. "You must have been pretty wasted too, then. I know what I look like drunk."

He shrugs and steps towards her, invading her personal space quite effectively. "Then explain to me," he says, words soft and rough, "why, right now, you're the most beautiful thing I've seen?"

She must look like a fool, eyelashes fluttering as she processes him. He smells nice, even after a night of drinking and that isn't _fair_. He thinks she looks beautiful with her messed up hair and probably very smudged makeup. He's so close she can feel his body heat, pressing up against her and worming its way into her veins.

What is it about this man?

"I think you're still wasted, then," she says softly, finally. He leans in closer, so close she could kiss him if she really wanted to. His head dips a little, breath crossing her neck.

"I think you don't know how to take a compliment, love."

His eyes are searing; blue like the sky, and wow, that's not sappy at all. But they're focused on her, intent and unclouded. No lies.

They flicker down to her lips and she dimly registers his hand on her waist, gently pulling her towards him. When he finally brushes his lips against hers, just a soft press, she doesn't resist. He seems to take it as permission, encouragement, and everything in between. This time, he drags her bodily against him, pressing his free hand against her cheek so he can kiss her again. He nips at her, slipping his tongue against the seal of her lips, sucking and teasing until she opens with a slight groan, hands going to his neck.

It's familiar and yet entirely new; Emma would guess that's probably the drinks from last night giving that particular sensation. He certainly kisses her like he already knows exactly what will make her melt in his arms. His hand is tangled in her hair at the back of her neck, tilting her head back while his other slips around her back, holding them together tightly.

He makes a soft whimpering sound and slides his hand around to cup her cheek, to pull her even closer.

Abruptly, Emma realizes what she is doing. Kissing (that is rapidly turning into a full-on make-out) this _stranger_ who knows her far too well and not well enough at all. He's too close, too much, suffocating in sweetness. She pulls away fast, shoving at his shoulders and sending him staggering.

"I have to go," she forces out, snagging her bag. "I have to go," she repeats, refusing to meet his gaze as she brushes past him and out of the bedroom.

She hears him say her name, once, and then she's out the door.

. . . . . . . . . .

It's not until she's on the plane that she realizes the diamond ring that she had planned on giving back is still sparkling happily on her finger.


	3. Chapter 3

Sighing heavily, Emma shoves open the door to her apartment building. It's been a long day; hell, it's been a long _week._ Two back-to-back jobs have left her with an incredible backache, sore thighs from chasing criminals, and the overwhelming urge to sleep for three days. Luckily enough, that's exactly what she has planned; she's got the entire weekend off, and possibly Monday if nobody decides to run during her small break.

It's the first chance she's had to relax and unwind since, well, since Vegas, she supposes.

Just the thought of that weekend…well. She nearly broke her ankle chasing down her mark, got drunk out of her mind and apparently married some stranger, and then promptly left without bothering to figure out how to undo the damned thing.

On the bright side, however, she definitely remembers more of the better parts of that night. There was definitely a reason why he had seemed so smug(and worn out) that morning.

The elevator promptly deposits her on her floor, and she rounds the corner to her apartment, only to pull up short, brain freeze.

There, leaning casually against the wall, is the devil. He hasn't quite noticed her yet, eyes focused on her door as though he could stare a hole through it. There's an envelope under his arm and he's got a bouquet of flowers against his elbow, a bottle of wine next to his feet.

He…looks good. She hates herself for admitting that, but it's true. Leather jacket, tight jeans, two buttons undone at his collar, leaning against the wall as though he owns the place, as though he has every right to be here.

He kind of does, admittedly.

That's when he notices her, a grin breaking across his face as she starts down the hall. He bends down to pick up the bottle and doesn't seem perturbed in the slightest by her lack of reciprocal excitement.

"Emma," he says, nodding. "You look _amazing_."

And there he is. Rolling her eyes, she very purposefully leans against the wall next to her door.

"So, Hook," she begins, and it comes out far more teasing than she intended. "How did you find me, who let you up here, and what are you doing here?"

"Well, first of all, I'll always find you. A lovely lady let me in when I told her my wife and I were separated and she lived here and I was trying to win her heart back." He smirked, and Emma rolled her eyes. "As for why I'm here…these." He reaches under his arm and pulls out the envelope, waving it at her. "Divorce papers, love."

She raises an eyebrow at him.

"Divorce?"

"Aye, divorce. Unless somehow you're exceptionally bad at giving encouraging signals and the whole running away from a _kiss_ and spending the next six weeks hiding out in Boston and avoiding my calls was some sign of undying affection. In which case, I'll gladly shred these and we can make up for lost time." The way he wiggles his eyebrows is more than enough to imply exactly how they'd be making up.

Emma is silent for a long moment, because he's not wrong. She hasn't exactly been avoiding him, per say, just…conveniently wearing herself into the ground so she doesn't have to answer his calls. In her defense, she's still dealing with the fact that she just up and _married_ some stranger.

He just looks at her, a sad knowing look, like he can read her, like she's an open book, the one thing she's always prided herself at being the opposite of.

"I suppose you want to come inside?"

Shrugging blandly, he leans forward off the wall and takes a step towards her. "We could do this out here if you'd like, but I'm thinking we might need a couple glasses of wine to start off. Unless you fancy straight from the bottle." The leer that accompanies the suggestion is far from unexpected, and Emma rolls her eyes, turning her back to him so she can unlock the door and shove it open.

He follows close on her heels as she tosses the keys in top of the coat rack and strips off her jacket.

"Here," he says, handing her the bottle and the flowers so he can shrug his off, and she very studiously examines the label on the wine rather than watching the way the buttons of his shirt pull across his chest and the way his shoulders shift. When she looks up, he's smirking.

"I can promise it's good; at least, it had better be, for that price."

Handing both items back to him, she turns and heads for the kitchen. "Do I even want to know?"

"Well, love, it would be bad form to reveal just how much was spent in this attempt to woo you."

"To woo me," she asks, disbelief obvious in her tone even buried to her shoulders in her cabinets, searching for a couple of wine glasses. To be honest, Emma's not much of a fan of the idea of glasses. When she drinks, it's more often than not right out of the bottle. He lays down the flowers on the bar and steps into the kitchen.

"Personally motto, darling," his voice comes from behind her, low and, well, no bones about it, seductive. Before she knows it his hands are resting gently on her waist as he leans in, pressing against her back. "A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets."

He keeps his fingers where they are, but tips his head forward, nosing at her neck. "And I will fight for you right until you sign on that line, right until the ink is dry."

Instead of doing what she _should_ do, which would be stepping away with the glasses clutched tightly in her hands, she doesn't more. "And what makes you think you even have a chance?" It comes out _breathy_, damn her.

He chuckles.

"Nothing whatsoever. Nothing except I _know_ you. You fancy being alone just about as much as I do, and despite your claims, you don't hate me. In fact, I'd bet it's quite the opposite." He kisses her shoulder softly. "I think you're scared of the fact that you _do_ feel something for someone after so long. That some drunk mistake, in your mind, might end up being as something amazing."

She'd much rather ignore his implications, his implicit understanding. So she lets him kiss down her neck and curl his fingers around the front of her sweater.

"Do you always bring divorce papers when you're trying to seduce someone?" she manages to get out, remaining perfectly still even though she wants to stretch her neck to the side and push her hips back against his.

"Only you, love," he whispers. "Only you." His fingers slip under her shirt, rubbing soft circles against her hipbones as his lips travel decidedly north, nipping gently at her ear before kissing her jaw.

It feels wonderful, and yes, Emma could and would gladly let him continue, let him distract them both and she could let him think that he had won, just to have someone here with her, to be less alone. But she's been given false hope more times than she can count, and she refuses to do the same.

"About those papers," she says, and grips the glasses in her hand, stepping back into him, forcing him to move. He releases her with a sigh, skin no longer touching, and she doesn't regret it at all. Not one bit. Snagging the corkscrew, she turns away from him, taking the moment to calm her breathing.

Leading him out of the kitchen, she heads to the couch as he picks up the bottle and the envelope. She settles heavily and reaches out for the bottle. He gladly hands it over and sits next to her, legs touching, of course.

She opens the wine efficiently and pours them each a generous glass.

"Do you anticipate this evening being difficult, Emma?" He asks as he accepts a glass from her, genuine curiosity evident.

"I don't know," she shrugs her shoulders and shoots him a look. "I've never gotten divorced before."

"Oh, neither have I. I have lawyers to know these things." His eyes are fixed on her over the rim of the glass as he takes a sip. Emma raises an eyebrow at him and sets her glass down.

"Lawyers, as in plural?"

"I suppose you don't remember what I do, do you?" He smiles charmingly and leans toward her. "Lawyers, plural. They tend to hover quite a bit. They're quite useful, however when I get myself into predicaments."

"When you say predicaments, do you mean accidental marriage?" Emma deadpans and he chuckles, setting down his glass as well.

"Well, that night did end with me in a bit of a…_predicament_." His grin turns to a leer and she rolls her eyes again.

"Wow. So mature. So charming. Why am I not falling into your arms right now?" She pretends to swoon, giving him a sardonic look.

"So cheeky. So stubborn. So beautiful," he says, mimicking her tone, though the words don't come out right. By now he knows how she feels about compliments; he's doing it merely to annoy her. That's what she tells herself when she tears her gaze away from him and takes another swallow of the wine.

"So," she says, "show me these papers and where I need to sign."

"Skipping right into the pain and suffering, I see." He clutches at his chest melodramatically, but reaches for the envelope anyway, pulling out a sheaf of papers. "I don't really understand it, honestly, but the lawyers, they say that it all means basically that you're agreeing to not demand half my fortune or anything and then it'll be like we never even knew each other."

She dares a glance at him, and he actually seems rather unhappy.

"Half your fortune?" she asks, and no, she didn't mean to say that, she meant to ask for a pen.

He shrugs and sips at his wine. "I was a boat captain, and then I started a shipping company. It sort of took off, much to my surprise."

Emma tilts her head to the side, considering it. "I guess that explains the Captain Hook costume."

He grunts and shifts. "He's always been rather misunderstood. Peter Pan was the true villain of that story. Bloody demon," he growls, tipping back enough wine for her to notice that he is already half-way through the more than generous portion. She glances down at hers and takes a sip to even things out. It's a matter of pride, really, though she does realize that maybe trying to keep up with his drinking is what got them into this mess in the first place.

"You have very strong feelings about a children's story."

"Maybe it's more than a children's story for me," he says with a shrug. "But enough about me, tell me more about you."

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing, Jones," she replies, because he couldn't be more obvious if he tried. He's trying to pry information out of her, to build a connection, to make her second-guess her commitment to ending their eternal commitment.

"And what is that, Mrs. Jones?"

"I prefer Miss Swan, actually," she snaps back, and he chuckles lowly.

"I'll remember that for later, then, Emma," he says, voice suddenly quite a bit rougher than before.

She doesn't miss the blatant implication, nor can she ignore the heat creeping up her neck. Suddenly, she feels every single drop of wine she's drunk, and hell, it hasn't been _that_ much. But he's suddenly looking at her like he could eat her alive, and yes, a small part of her says appreciatively, he is very welcome to try.

Glancing between the papers laid out on her coffee table and what's left of her wine, she contemplates what's on the table here. There's no way he'll ever convince her to not sign this shit; she would rather be chained to an actual iron ball and thrown in the ocean than stay married to _him_. Anyone, really, but she's starting to discover that Killian Jones is a dangerous man to be around. She doesn't want his money, doesn't want his ring (not where it sits on her dresser, mocking her every time she lays down in her empty bed with a missed call from "Hubby" on her phone), doesn't want _him_.

That last part isn't entirely true, but that's only because the alcohol is getting to her head and she can't be blamed for being curious; she remembers some, but it's not enough. It's really just enough for a taste, a tease of what he's like in bed. But that's the only place she wants him, the only way she can afford to want him.

She can always sign the papers tomorrow, right?

Picking up her glass, she downs what's left of the wine, swallowing hard before turning in her seat.

"I'm signing those papers," she tells him, and reaches forward to take his glass out of his hands. She resists the urge to finish it off too; she wants to be pleasantly buzzed, not forget this all over again. He doesn't make any move to stop her, instead tracking her every movement with his eyes. When she rises up off the couch he doesn't say anything. She draws her hands up, pressing them against his chest and then his shoulders, thumbs brushing under his collar. "I _will not_ be married to you. This," she says, planting one knee against his thigh, shifting so she can straddle him, back straight, forcing him to look up at her. "This is a _one time thing_."

"_Really_?" He tilts his head up, eyes hungry and thrown open. All attempts at seduction are out the window, it seems. She slips her fingers up into his hair and his eyes flutter, a barely-detectable groan escaping him when she tugs gently.

"Really," she says, and leans down to kiss the edge of his mouth. "Not a thing you can do about it."

She knows she's teasing him, is well aware of the potentially precarious ledge she's walking on.

He growls and grabs her hips, yanking her down harshly until she's seated in his lap.

"We'll see," is all he says, and then he's kissing her.


End file.
